In Over Her Head
by daRk-wicKed-goDdeSs
Summary: 25 year old, war veteran, Hermione Granger needs to reconnect with her Grandfather. What she finds at his school for mutants is much more than she imagined. With a feral mate, she just might be in over her head.  Hermione/Logan possible Harry/Gambit.
1. Chapter 1

Hi Everyone! This is a story I've had rolling around in my head for a few months.

On the Harry Potter front, it will be completely AU after the Graveyard scene in Book 4. However, I will be incorporating a few things from Book 5.

As for X-Men, well this will definitely be pretty AU for that one.

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I am not the owner of either Harry Potter or the X-Men series. Both belong to J. and Stan Lee respectively. I'm just thankful they let me play with their brilliant characters._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

_Thick fog caused by excessive use and an abundance of latent magic rolled around the five foot five frame of a young, curly haired witch. Her expressionless face, flashing amber streaked eyes, and lithe body shrouded in her black, dragon-hide battle robes (save for the crimson armband on her left sleeve) strikes an impressive image in the minds of many-a-Death Eater as her team moves in on the final wave of enemy reinforcements. The young witch, twenty-five year old Hermione Granger, was fighting for her very right to exist in Little Hangelton, England. _

_As she attempts to navigate through the melee, the breath Hermione's body desperately needs is greedily, defiantly being sucked into her lungs and then expelled in harsh pants. It's a bodily function she performs without ever consciously thinking to do so. It's one voluntary action she savors like the finest chocolate even if it is only to remind herself that she is still there to breathe if she so chooses. _

_Breathing reminds her that she's still alive._

_She's forced sideways to dodge the sickly, yellow bludgeoning curse aimed for her wand arm. The curse crashes into the overly large marble angel masquerading as a grave marker to her right. Stone explodes in various directions and as she stumbles backwards, she feels the bones of someone long since dead crush beneath the heel of her reinforced dragon-hide boot._

_She doesn't even pause to check whether the body she has just desecrated is friend or foe. She doesn't think about the body. She can't think about it or any of the others. _

_There are more enemies to battle, more lives to take. _

_When it's all over, when this pointless war is finished, if she's still here, then she will weep for them. She will weep for the parents who will never see their children again. She will weep for the parents whom will bury their children and the children whom will bury their parents. She will weep for the innocence lost. She will weep for the many lives touched by the horrors of war. She will weep for the lives they will never have. _

_She will weep for them all._

_But not yet. _

_Instead she turns to meet her attacker, a woman with a cruel tinge to her Russian accented voice, blow for blow. Out of habit she licks her lips between her barrage of offensive and defensive spells. The metallic and tangy taste of someone else's blood coats her tongue. It belongs to the woman, or perhaps the man Hermione killed before her. The absolute wrongness of tasting anothers life force doesn't stop the young witch or gross her out. It just causes Hermione's full top lip to curl into a sneer of annoyance as she rushes her attacker and delivers a well placed punch to the solar plexus. While the Death Eater attempts to catch her breath, Hermione unsheathes Sadalbari- a beautifully crafted scimitar- and impales the Russian in one fell, unexpected swoop. _

_A distinctive squelch rings through the air as Hermione pulls the curved short sword from between the Death Eaters ribs. The warm, fresh blood coating the blade and dripping from its sharp tip steams in the chilly pre-dawn air. Hermione does not check to confirm a death. She knows that the venoms and poisons she personally imbued in her Goblin wrought blade will finish the job if her blow was not fatal. She does not even wait for the Russians body to hit the ground before she moves on, expertly twirling her scimitar in arches around her body to form an impromptu shield for the curses she has no time to dodge._

_Another Death Eater attacks in close range. Another body falls. New blood mingles with that of thousands of others and she turns. She's looking for another fight. Another kill. She doesn't have to look far. _

'_It will be over soon,' Hermione tells herself. It has to be over soon because she's not quite sure how much longer she can go on this way. She's been fighting for hours now. It's been a never ending onslaught of enemy after enemy. At this point she's using everything she's got, every ounce of strength left in her body just stay upright, just to stay alive._

_As her short sword clashes with the soft flesh of the opponent on her right and she sends a bone exploding hex to the one on her left, she sees Harry for the first time since he killed Lord Voldemort. _

_He's standing in the middle of the battlefield with his wand in one hand and the Sword of Gryffindor in the other. He is still breathing. He is still alive. Like an angel of death he's surrounded by bodies; the field is littered with them, enemies and allies alike. But the ones surrounding him are most definitely of those whom have tried and failed to avenge their master._

_He is drenched in blood. Some his own. Some his enemies. But most of it belongs to Professor McGonagall. The shirt beneath his battle robes is covered with her dried crimson life-force. It seeped straight through the cotton, clinging to his skin from when he tried desperately, unsuccessfully to save her life early on in the fight. Hermione knows that the matronly woman's body lies cold and motionless a few yards away where he hid it to prevent desecration._

_Their eyes meet despite the numerous yards between them. He lifts an eyebrow in silent question while nodding to the fights still occurring all across the battlefield. He's asking her if he should end it all before anyone else they love dies. _

_Hermione shakes her bloody halo of curls vehemently in disagreement. They are winning. Just a few more hours and it will be over. There is no need for him to use his signature elemental spell in such magnitude. The sheer power it requires could kill him._

_He clearly disagrees. He looks so weary. She knows he is tired of fighting. She knows he is tired of this war. She knows he just wants it to be over._

_He ignores her obvious protest. Instead he offers up an adoring smile. His lips clearly form the words, "I love you, sister." _

_His eyes flash a blinding shade of emerald and in that split second hundreds of bolts of lightning flash, slamming into bodies around the battlefield. The molten energy kills all intended targets. _

_The beautiful eyes of the man responsible close. Her best friend, her comrade, her brother, falls to join the pile of bodies at his feet._

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><p>Hermione jerked awake, silent tears streaming down her heart-shaped face. Despite having spent nearly a week as a prisoner of war at the mercy of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, that's one of her more unforgettable memories of the war. Not just because it happens to be the most intense battle fought, but because it's the day she thought she lost Harry forever. It's the day she thought she watched her brother die.<p>

Unfortunately, the memory always seems to play out until the point where she watches him fall. It lets her live with that abject horror and huge sense of loss for several moments after she awakes.

It's not until her mind clears that she remembers that she ran to his body and found a pulse. It's not until she calms down that she recalls that his sheer, dumb luck seemed to be out in abundance on that night because the spell that should have drained all of his magic and killed him merely put him into a magical coma.

Slightly bloodshot eyes stare unseeingly at the seat in front of her. As Hermione traces the patterns in the fabric she can't help but think about how Harry is the reason she's now on a flight from London, England to America.

He's the one who encouraged her to seek out her Grandfather now that its relatively safe for her to approach what remains of her tattered family. He's also the one whom pulled strings with the government to obtain her not only dual citizenship in America, but a contract to work with the American Auror Corps to track down the rogue Death Eaters that all traces show slipped from Europe and into their countries after Voldemort fell.

Hermione's thankful for everything Harry has done for her since the end of the War.

Really.

She is.

It's just that, personally, the young witch doesn't think she's stable enough to take up residence with her Grandfather after spending a good portion of her mere twenty-five years of life fighting in Europe's Second Blood War. But, alas, everyone who matters seems to believe she's the best person for the job and that she'll be capable of adjusting to the new life.

Naturally, she wanted to cling to what bit of familiarity she had in England. It wasn't that she didn't desire to see all Death Eaters persecuted for their crimes against humanity, it's just that all of her friends were in Europe. So she tried to change their decision by telling them how she'd likely be a danger to everyone around her when she was not on assignment.

Harry shot that excuse down immediately, easily recognizing it for what it was. He promptly refuted Hermione's lame argument by informing her that being out of Europe where so many battles were fought would mean far less a chance of her losing it than if she were to remain. Furthermore he guilt tripped her by reminding her that many people, including himself, have no family to reconnect with so she should be taking advantage of such an opportunity while working for the Americans.

So after another month in England packing up her meager personal effects and having a final Hurrah! with her mates that survived the War, Hermione's now thousands of feet over the Atlantic in a flying contraption of death worrying about her future.

This was her Grandfather, Professor Charles Xavier of the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning, she'd be just showing up out of nowhere to live with. Not only has she not seen him since the summer before her fourth year when she visited New York with her parents, but he's also what's known as a mutant. That means he's a muggle whom carries the X-Gene- an anomaly in the human genome which affords the carriers certain gifts.

Her Grandfathers gift is telepathy.

And that scared Hermione more than she'd ever admit.

What if her occlumency shields aren't strong enough to keep him out of her head? What if he learns of all the atrocious acts she has committed 'for the greater good' during the war he knew so little about. What if he decides he doesn't want a woman whom is nothing like the young bookworm he last interacted with?

Because that innocent little girl will never be coming back. Unfortunately, Hermione the Clueless Bookworm had to leave the building at the tender age of fifteen when war threatened her very existence. Hermione the Soldier took her place and life hadn't exactly been beer and skittles since.

She shrugged her petite shoulders as a sigh fell from her lips. She hopes that maybe she'll just get lucky and easily adapt to a relatively normal life with her Grandfather at his school for mutants when she isn't off chasing down rogues.

Unfortunately, Hermione knows that's just an unlikely fancy. It has been five months since the fall of Voldemort and she has yet to adapt to a life where she no longer has to constantly fight for the right to live in a society dominated by pure-blooded aristocrats. After five months she still catches herself living like every minute may be her last. Be it letting her friends know how much they mean to her every time they part or enjoying a few pints and a good joke; It doesn't matter. Hermione still clings to those moments as if she'll never get another chance. Hell, it's been five months with very little Death Eater activity and she still scans rooms for those trying to kill her, scopes out all possible exits, and flinches away from unfamiliar touch.

After nearly ten years in the melee of the conflict, she knows that these things are involuntary actions she performs because they were ingrained into her psych by all of her combat instructors. However, Hermione has a sneaking suspicion that they are habits she'll never fully be rid of, even when there is no longer a threat, because being rid of them would mean letting down her guard. It would mean allowing herself to be vulnerable both physically and emotionally.

Vulnerability is something she fears with every fibre of her being. But she figures she doesn't need to worry about that now. She doubts she will ever be able to open up to any of the mutants at her Grandfathers estate because they will never be capable of understanding the hell she survived in her war ravaged country.

And she definitely knows that she will not be letting her Grandfather or any of the others treat her as if she is some weak, vulnerable fragile doll because of any memories she shares with them. Hermione knows that she may be war hardened and a bit… loose in the head at times, but she'll always be stronger than anyone will ever know despite her many faults because the Death Eaters tried to break her and failed. As Hemingway once put it "_The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places."_

Well that's Hermione Granger. Strong at the broken places.

"_Ladies and Gentlemen, please fasten your seat belts as we prepare to land. It is just past three in the afternoon here in New York City. It is roughly seventy degrees Fahrenheit with a slight breeze. I hope you enjoy your stay and, as always, thank you for flying British Airways."_

The captains voice shook Hermione out of her musings. The brunettes eyes squeezed shut tightly of their own accord and her jaw clenched in preparation for descent. In Hermione's opinion the feeling of ones stomach attempting to take up residence in ones throat is the worst part of flying. Well, other than the whole possibility of crashing…but they say the odds of that happening are slim to none right?

Right.

'Good thing I didn't bring Harry along,' she decided. 'The impossible usually happens when he's involved. Yes. It's a very good thing. He can fly in one of these metal contraptions of death on his own, thank you very much.'

Finally the plane landed and Hermione took a few moments to compose herself less she do something completely undignified, like sick-up in the aisle, before grabbing her trusty rucksack from the overhead and following her fellow first class passengers towards customs. She got cleared nearly an hour later and effortlessly navigated through the overly crowded John F. Kennedy airport to a shadowed and well hidden alleyway outside.

She quickly checked to ensure no passersby were paying attention to her actions before unshrinking her most beloved possession. The Ducati Street-fighter S was a congratulations present from Sirius for passing the test to get her motorbike license. Not only does her bike have a liquid cooled V-Twin that emits a burly rumble through its stacked mufflers, but Sirius performed several magical enhancements as well. Now instead of only putting out 155 hp, it pulls upwards of 200 with magical safety features to minimize the risk of injury in the event of crashing at such high speeds. He even performed a powerful charm on the identification plates so that they will always read as being up to date in whatever country it is being ridden in.

And that doesn't even account for the black and electric blue paint job on hers and the black and emerald green of Harry's. Sirius' prankster side came out a bit when he worked on them because their respective bikes each have a quote that they can totally imagine him popping out at them some time or another on written inside the flames on the left side.

Hers actually reads, _"I wish we could do something really sinful," _of all things.

She's _still_ in a state of disbelief about how suggestive that sounds.

Sadly, no matter how skeptical she is of the quote on her bike, it happens to be the material thing she treasures the most in the world since Sirius got killed in action not a month after he gave it to her.

The curly haired witch quickly mounted the bike as she locked those particularly depressing thoughts away behind one of her Occulmency barriers to sort out when she took a shower or went to bed. They weren't the sort one should have while maneuvering a very heavy motorbike through the chaos that is New York City.

She donned her helmet, fingerless dragon-hide riding gloves, and form fitting dragon-hide riding jacket before starting her baby up. The engine practically purred as she revved it a few times. Once she had adequately warmed the motor, she left the alleyway and navigated her way through the mid afternoon traffic.

At just past five o'clock Hermione passed the Westchester county line. Even though her Grandfather had received a letter last month telling him to expect her arrival, she decided it would be prudent to alert of him of her approach anyway.

She carefully lowered her Occulumency shields just enough to ensure he would hear her think, "Grandfather, expect my arrival in the next thirty minutes."

As if he were waiting for her call, he promptly replied, "I'll meet you at the front entrance. The code for the gate is X129563MJ."

Hermione didn't respond further. Her shields went back to full capacity and she concentrated on the beautiful New York countryside to quell her nerves.

She had once more managed to reach a neutral and calm state by the time she approached the black gates of the large mansion masquerading as a school. But her nerves returned full force as she looked upon her Grandfathers estate. She reached out with shaking fingers to punch in the code.

The imposing gates slowly began opening. Hermione closed her amber streaked brown eyes while she took a few deep breaths. She needed a moment to gather all of her supposed Gryffindor courage and bravery because, like it or not, she was here. Once she felt her cool, detached confidence reign supreme once more, she revved her Ducati and took off towards the sprawling mansion.

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><p><em><strong>Review and let me know whether I should continue or not!<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I am not the owner of either Harry Potter or the X-Men series. Both belong to J.K. Rowling and Marvel -Stan Lee- respectively. I'm just thankful they let me play with their brilliant characters._

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><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

Hermione got her first glimpse of her grandfather as she rounded the final bend of the drive. In his state of the art wheel chair, he sat atop the steps to the front entrance with stained glass inlaid mahogany doors looming behind him in a rather grand fashion. Despite the numerous meters separating them she could discern that her grandfather looked much older and more careworn than the last time she had seen him. There were definitely more lines shadowing his once sharp aristocratic features- visual evidence that the years past had not been easy. She didn't even have to examine him any closer to know that his baby blues didn't shine quite as brightly as they had when she was but a young child pushing his chair around the mansion and questioning him about the most nonsensical things.

The reality that he had changed just as much as she had over the last ten years finally registered for Hermione. The revelation, oddly, soothed the edges of her frayed nerves better than any of Harry's numerous attempts to reassure her the past month.

With new found confidence, she slowed her Ducati to a stop just in front of the steps. The charmed kickstand immediately dropped to cradle the weight of her motorbike when she shut the engine off.

Hermione swung her left leg off to join the right whilst simultaneously removing her helmet in a fluid and unconsciously graceful movement that showcased her years of experience on motorbikes. She placed the helmet atop the leather seat then looked up to meet her grandfather's kind eyes for the first time in a decade.

"Hello, Grandfather," She whispered with a sad smile tilting her full lips.

"Hermione," he returned just as softly, his voice hitching slightly between the second and third syllable of her name.

One word - her name- is all it took for the fortress she had constructed to protect herself from the emotional turmoil of war to begin to crumble. The way he spoke her name- the way he lovingly pronounced the syllables, caressing them as if they were the most precious four he would ever speak- healed a long forgotten place in her heart where a scared little girl yearned for the comfort of her family.

And she couldn't find it in herself to deny herself proof that this was not a mere fantasy no matter how vulnerable and open to attack it made her feel. With effortless grace Hermione glided to his chair and leaned down to envelop the aristocratic mutant into a long overdue embrace.

A few traitorous tears slipped down her cheeks once she breathed in her grandfathers high end cologne. The familiar bergamot, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cardamom scents swirled around her. She inhaled them greedily, committing them to memory.

She just couldn't help herself.

Many a time throughout the years she believed she would never live long enough to ever bask in such an achingly familiar and homey scent again. To be able to do so once more… To know that she was alive and capable of sniffing her grandfather whenever she pleased… There were no words to describe how utterly amazing it felt.

_Harry will never let me live this down. He was right. I did need to be here._Hermione thought with a put upon mental sigh before turning her attention back to the man in her arms.

"Grandfather, I'm sorry about not contacting you. I… I had to keep your existence as secret as possible… I had to protect you," Hermione echoed the words of her letter with as much sincerity as possible in his ear before straightening and stepping away while discreetly wiping the moisture from her cheeks.

"My dear child, how I've missed you so. I will not begrudge you for doing what you felt necessary to protect me from the war in your society. I'm just relieved to see that you are alive- for I've feared the worst in the years following the news of your parents death."

A blinding, yet relieved, smile spread across Hermione's face at his forgiving words, "Thank you."

"Do not dwell on it any longer, dearest. You are here and alive. That is all that matters. Now, what do you say to helping an old man inside? I believe we have just enough time for you to drop your things into your suite and then to be introduced to the professors before dinner. They have been quite eager to meet you ever since I informed the entire school that my magical granddaughter would be visiting."

Hermione re-shrank her Ducati and stored it. Then picked up her rucksack from where she had dropped it on the pavement without noticing.

"You let the magic out of the bag, Grandfather?" She chuckled as she grasped the handles of her grandfather's chair, pushing him inside the doors and down a familiar hallway towards the family wing.

"This is your home. You should be able to be yourself here."

Hermione couldn't argue with his logic. He made a valid point. Besides who was she to argue with him? This is his school. He can run it however he sees fit.

"Well that will certainly will make things much more simple," she pointed out. "I won't have to think of a suitable explanation if I'm seen doing something.. Odd."

In no time at all, they reached her suite. She knew without a doubt that it would look exactly as it had the last time she saw it just before fourth year. Her grandfather would not have changed a thing. When she flipped on the light, her suspicions were confirmed. Every detail of the brightly colored room was exactly as she had left it. Right down to the framed photos, the book on the nightstand, and the open wardrobe.

Hermione winced as she caught a glimpse of what adorned her lime green walls. _What ever was I thinking when I put those up?_ she grumbled to herself. _Redecoration is now at the top of my to-do list for tomorrow. This room obviously needs some new paint. But as soon as I get back from dinner, these posters are definitely history. There is no way I'll be able to sleep with those creepy posters of Lance Bass, Joey Fatone, Drew Lachey, Nick Carter, Robbie Wiliams, Gary Barlow, or any other washed out British and/or American teeny boppers giving me those creepy, wannabe seductive stares._

Hermione purposely avoided looking at the horrid walls any longer. She dropped her rucksack on top of her bed then removed both her riding jacket and gloves, adding them to the pile.

"So…how did they take it?" She queried curiously, leaving the room and pushing her grandfather back to the main part of the Manor where his office was located.

The wizened professor tilted his head back and smirked up at her. "With as much disbelief as can be expected. It was quite the interesting and humorous discussion. However; Hank, Ororo, and Scott have been quite chipper since they heard of your impending visit."

A small, slightly nostalgic smile spread across the young witches face at the mention of her surrogate uncle and childhood playmates.

Hank, also known as Beast, had to be the kindest man in the world despite his gigantic fright inducing appearance. Even as a child she hadn't shown any fear of him. Instead she had constantly sought him out to give her piggy back rides around the manor or to question. When she got older and her magic had went wonky, she had always been able to come to him for advice no matter how severe the situation. He didn't even whinge when she needed a shoulder to cry on after being teased. He had helped her grandfather and parents guide her through the most confusing time of her life.

Things had gotten better for Hermione when her grandfather brought Scott and Ororo to live a Xavier Manor. Although their abilities were not as out of control and unpredictable as hers, she was still able to relate to them. They had offered her acceptance and friendship when the children at her primary school back in England would shy away and call her a freak. Over the summers Scott and Ororo took on the roles of protective older siblings. Because of this, the three of them had developed a very deep bond during childhood.

Hermione snapped out of her reflections and her previously lowered guard went back up the moment they entered his office. Her muscles tensed and her senses came alive as adrenaline coursed through her veins. The subconscious defense mechanism her magic had developed during the war to scope out her surroundings obviously recognized more than just muggles, witches, or wizards. In the immediate area, her magical aura identified seven fairly powerful beings.

Her instincts began screaming at her to react, that these people were not mere humans and could be threats. Her right hand twitched as if to summon her wand while her left moved towards what would normally be the hilt of Sadalbari.

Hermione paused.

She took a few steps away from her grandfather and the mutants to help her reign in her fight or flight response.

The young witch then took a deep breath. In. She held it for thirty seconds, then released it slowly. She had to calm down and let her logic reign supreme. They were her grandfather's professors. She knew she would be encountering mutants. She shouldn't be acting this way. She shouldn't be attempting to attack them for merely existing. It took every ounce of control in Hermione's possession to relax her hands from their defensive position.

"Now, for introductions," the Professor began, clueless to Hermione's inner battle.

A slightly wrinkled, but incredibly elegant hand pointed towards the sofa closest to her and furthest from his desk, "This is Kurt Wagner, also known as Nightcrawler. He possess' superhuman agility, the ability to teleport, and the ability to climb walls."

Hermione observed the mutant with criticizing eyes. He was a most intriguing being. The thin mutant had blue skin scarred with ancient sigils, long claw-like nails, a forked tail, and canary yellow eyes. The mutant's body was like one huge puzzle waiting to be solved. Hermione wasn't a curse breaker, not by a long shot, but even her own mind wanted to linger on his form and decipher the sigils on his skin. She couldn't tear her eyes away even though it was incredibly rude to stare for so long.

"A pleasure," he decreed in a heavy German accent. His accompanying cheeky wink caused heat to flood her face for she knew she had been caught ogling him.

She averted her eyes and instead focused her gaze on the woman beside him. The tell-tale white hair and mocha skin could not have belonged to any other than Ororo. The weather goddess was even more beautiful now than she had been when they were children. Hermione flashed her a warm smile.

"And of course you know Ororo. Beside her is..."

"Gambit, or Remy. Whichever ye prefer ta call me, Cher," The lanky man with his arm draped across Ororo's shoulders in a familiar manner interrupted. He had a slightly hypnotic and heavily French influenced accent. "Remy can manipulate de kinetic energy ta make tings blow up. Also good wit de charm and fightin' wit de staff. I gotta say, Cher, it be nice ta be meetin' de Professor's family."

"Likewise," Hermione responded as she scrutinized him.

Dirty blond hair fell from beneath his haphazardly placed fedora to his shoulders where it highlighted his strong jaw. The hat and sunglasses obscuring his eyes gave him a decidedly devil may care feel that perfectly matched his drawl. The image was helped along by his relaxed manner which hinted towards his disinterest about what went on around him. Hermione had found herself in a similar state enough herself to know differently though. The relaxed, 'I don't care' stance was all an act to lull others into a false sense of security and hide just how alert he was.

"And then we have Hank and Scott."

Her attention strayed from Mr. Nonchalance LeBeau when her grandfather's words registered. On the sofa closest to her grandfather's desk sat Hank with a smile so wide it looked painful. He seemed older than the last time they met, but he had aged well. The bespeckled, grinning man on his left was none other than Scott. She would have been able to identify him without her grandfather's introduction even though she hadn't seen him since his teenage years. His signature red RayBan's pretty much gave away his identity.

However, she didn't recognize the willowy, auburn beauty tucked into his shoulder. Hermione looked at the blue eyed woman curiously. Her and Scott were obviously lovers. Their position screamed intimacy.

"Hermione, this is Scott's wife, Jean. She is both telepathic and telekinetic," Hank introduced boisterously, confirming her suspicions about their relationship.

"Like Grandfather," Hermione surmised with a tilt of her head as she focused her ambient magic to get a better read on the power of the woman in front of her. After all, she was married to a man the young witch considered family. "I must confess that I'm glad I learned to shield my mind years ago. I'd likely go spare with two powerful telepaths capable of taking a stroll up top," Hermione admitted with a playful tap to her temple.

Jean offered an understanding nod, probably accustomed to having people not want her in their heads.

"I had wondered why I wasn't capable of passively entering your mind any longer. You must describe this method of shielding sometime soon."

Hermione squeezed his shoulder to show her acquiescence to his request.

"Now, the last professor, Logan- or Wolverine as he prefers- is our resident feral."

She looked towards the wall her grandfather indicated. Her head tilted to the side in interest as she got a good look at the final mutant. Dressed in boots, worn jeans, and a t-shirt that accentuated his powerful build…he was… ruggedly handsome. With a patrician nose, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw- this Logan had a wild beauty to him that Hermione appreciated more than she would ever admit.

The feral was a soldier, or had been at some point in his life. What was that adage? Once a soldier, always a soldier? And Hermione knew the signs of a soldier when she saw them. She could identify his military background by the hard set of his jaw, impassive features, and confident stance. Beyond that, it was evident by his eyes. Logan's greenish-grey orbs had the haunted, _'I've seen far too much death and destruction'_quality Hermione saw every time she looked into the mirror.

Probably due to his violent background, Logan had this aura of danger surrounding him. It simultaneously enticed Hermione and put her on guard. He was lethal and knew it. In fact, he recognized it, embraced it even. It made the mutant confident in his ability to defend himself and others, but not cocky enough to believe himself invincible. It shone through in the casual way he leaned up against the wall- shoulders back, ankles crossed, arms folded across the chest, and head cocked with a wry, knowing smile as he surveyed her quite intently.

Logan was assessing her just as she was assessing him. She could feel herself being judged as his eyes raked over her well toned body from head to toe. And for some unknown, unexplainable reason, she hoped that she was not found wanting.

When his dark, stormy eyes caught Hermione's gaze, she did not look away. He may be an obviously dominant feral, but she would not submit so easily. She was better than that. She was a war veteran. She had survived an unimaginable hell and lived to tell the tale. Hermione Granger submitted to nobody without them having earned it. She proudly held his stare in an almost challenging manner.

Open surprise flitted across his emotionless face before he lifted a brow in subtle recognition of something kindred. She dipped her chin a few millimeters in his direction- an acknowledgment of sorts.

"Well, I do believe we should continue getting acquainted, or reacquainted, with one another in the dining hall. Dinner started ten minutes ago, if the students are left alone much longer I'm afraid they may decide to start another food fight," Her grandfather proclaimed before she could say anything.

Jean hurried to wheel him out of the room with the others rushing behind- expressions of worry and resignation twisting their countenance.

Well all of the professors, except for Logan and Remy. They lazily strolled behind the others - or rather Remy strolled whereas Logan walked with a slow, prowl like gate which hinted at the predator beneath the surface. Either way, neither showed much concern over this possible food fight. Their nonchalance seemed to say that this was nothing to fret over. It was all par for the course of being a professor.

Hermione followed behind at a much more sedate pace than even the aforementioned duo. Now that she knew all of the professors and their mutations, she would be able to relax a little bit in their presence. But she just needed a moment to acclimate herself to her surroundings and to prepare herself to enter a room full of unknown mutants. She didn't want to lose it and attack a room full of innocents just because she was unaccustomed to their presence.

She stopped at the door to take a few fortifying breaths. _I can do this _she told herself._ I've faced Death Eater's, Werewolves, and Vampires. I've spit in the Dark Lord's face and told him to go fuck himself in between Crucio's. It's just a room full of untrained mutant teenagers. Even if they were to attack, I'm powerful enough to handle them. They would hardly be a match for me, even on my worst day. I can do this.  
><em>

With her freshly bolstered Gryffindor traits reigning supreme, she pushed the door open.

All eyes turned to her and Hermione had to fight back a cringe at all of the unwanted attention. She felt her muscles tense slightly in response to her magic's distress, but managed to keep her cool, unaffected facade. She did her best to ignore the curious stares as she worked her way through the dinner line.

With a full plate, she walked further into the room. Her eyes immediately found the circular table where all of the adults were seated at the front of the hall. Her grandfather sat in the center where he could oversee the room with Hank and Scott flanking him. Remy and Ororo both sat next to Hank while Jean and Kurt sat next to Scott. The only open seat was between Logan and Ororo.

She approached and quickly took the available seat, hoping once she was a smaller target the students would ignore her presence. Unfortunately, that wasn't happening. Hermione could feel the collective stares of the students on her back. She could feel that they were watching her every move as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth. Her lip curled in a visible show of annoyance. She wanted to do nothing more than turn around and stare back - to challenge them. Her grip tightened on her silverware to compensate for the amount of restraint she was showing in regards to her more violent tendencies. If she were in her world, she would send all of them a little shock or hit them with a hex to showcase her annoyance.

"Yes, Chuck's granddaughter is here. Yes, she's a witch. Stop staring," The feral at her side snarled loud enough that it echoed around the room.

Apparently, Logan had the whole intimidation thing down pat. Hermione could sense everyone looking in another direction as quickly as possible. They obviously feared being on the ferals bad side.

The death grip on her fork loosened. The tension between her shoulder blades eased. She sighed in relief.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he replied gruffly before going back to his dinner.

"Yeah, ya might make de Wolverine blush if ya do, Cher. He hates bein' singled out for doin' someting nice. Even fo de pretty ladies," Remy teased.

"Shut up before I make you, you Wiley Cajun," Logan growled.

_Cajun...? Ah definitely explains the French influenced accent._

Remy leaned around Ororo, a mischievous smirk forming on his face. Having been present for the many fights, arguments, and prank wars between Harry, Sirius, the Weasley's, Remus, and Tonks- Hermione knew smirks like that never lead to anything good.

"Why were they staring anyway?" She asked before the Cajun could spit out his obviously goading retort.

Logan shrugged and went back to his dinner with a noncommittal grunt. Her attempt to head off a likely violent demonstration of their mutant abilities had succeeded.

"At the same time the school gained so many students, you stopped visiting. So not only are you unfamiliar, but they've just learned that there are beings more powerful than mutants. And you're one of those more powerful. You're a witch and they're curious. "

Ororo offered an understanding smile after her explanation. Due to the slumber parties they held as children where they bared their souls, Ororo more than anyone understood how much Hermione hated being different. How much she loathed being stared at like an exhibit at the zoo which happened often after an outburst of accidental magic at primary.

The war had only enhanced her feelings regarding the matter.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably.

"Lets not forget that a good portion of the students are hormone driven teenage males and that you're wearing leather pants with a tight top. They can't help but stare. You've grown into a total babe," Scott added with a sly wink.

His statement earned a soft, low growl from the man sitting beside her that Hermione was sure no one else noticed. It also got Scott a firm smack across the back of the head by his wife, but Hermione could tell that she was amused by his teasing.

But for the most part, his diversion worked. He always seemed to know when something was upsetting her, even as a child. So, like any big brother, he always worked to divert her thoughts to something else. Now instead of worrying about being stared at, Hermione was disgusted by the idea of being teenage wank material.

"Sweet Circe, Scott!" Hermione groaned loudly. "Did you really have to go there?"

"Of course I did. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't point out the obvious?"

"The perfect kind," Hermione sneered, not buying his innocent expression.

"So, Hermione, got a boyfriend back home?" Jean intervened with an obvious subject change.

All eyes turned towards the young witch as she choked on the sip of water she had taken.

"Uh...no?" she managed to choke out.

"You don't sound so sure."

Hermione scowled at Kurt. "I'm plenty sure," she affirmed.

"What about those two boys you were always hanging out with when you were younger.. Ron and Harry? Ever date one of them?"

"And on that note, I believe its time for me to depart," Her grandfather exclaimed looking mighty uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was taking.

"I think I'll join you," Hank added, rushing to stand and push the professor out of the dining hall.

The five occupants of the table watched their retreat with varying expressions of amusement.

"Soo... now that they're gone, tell us. Did you date one of them?" Scott prodded

"Ugh" Hermione groaned, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "That would be like dating... well, you Scott. I consider them brothers, so no.. I haven't dated either of them. Just the thought gives me the bleedin' willies.

"Anyone you're interested in?" Ororo asked with a sly smirk.

"Not lately, no. But I have been victim to some pretty lame pick-up lines. One or two made my top ten list."

"You have a top ten list for lame pick-up lines?"

Hermione shrugged a shoulder in response to Jean's question."I lived in the same house as Sirius for five years. He was an incorrigible flirt," she added as if that made a difference to them.

Ororo raised a brow as her lips tilted into a smirk."Sirius? Whose he? Is he cute?"

Yet another low growl came from the man beside Hermione. She glanced over with a furrowed brow. _Seriously? Did he have Uncontrollable Growling Syndrome -a mutant version of Tourette's Syndrome- or something? _

"I'll tell you about him some other time," Hermione evaded- regretting ever having mentioned him. She really didn't want to dredge up such sad memories of him now, or ever. But especially not in public.

"Yeah, you two can have girl talk later. I want to know more about this list of pick-up lines."

"What do you want to know about them, Scott?" She demanded through a yawn.

It suddenly hit Hermione that she was beyond tired. The restless nap she took on the plane in no way made up for her late night at the pub.

"I dunno, really. I'm just curious about them. Give us numbers one through three on your list."

"Alright, I'll give you the top three. But then I'm going to go sleep off my jet lag," She agreed, knowing that remembering the pick-up lines wouldn't be so bad.

She then held up three fingers.

"Alright coming in at number three- Roses are red, candle light flickers, after the meal its off with the knickers."

Hermione snorted, barely finishing the rhyme. That one always made her grin.

"Really?" Jean groaned in disbelief over the snorts of laughter the males let out.

"We _were_ playing a drinking game when Sirius popped it out. He always rhymed them when we broke out the Fire Whiskey," Hermione defended with a shake of her head.

She dropped a finger.

"At number two is the ever so popular- I'm Gay, think you can convert me?"

All of the men smirked at this one. No doubt they had used it at some point or another. As she got ready to say the last one, she caught a fit of the giggles. This line was one of a kind, if a bit lame. But nothing would ever beat Sirius dramatically dropping down on one knee before her and delivering it with a Hollywood vampire-esque accent. A soft snort escaped at the memory she used to conjure her patronus.

Hermione shook her head to shake out her giggle fit and dropped the final finger.

"Last, but certainly my all time favorite, is -Come to me, pretty lady, and let me slay you with my words of love."

"You're kidding!" Ororo exclaimed between giggles.

"I assure you, I am not. Now, not to be rude, but I'm off to bed."

Hermione stood and left the dining hall- her companions roaring laughter echoing in her wake.

* * *

><p><em>As you can probably tell, I decided against using Victor at the last minute. Things just weren't working out well when I tried to write him in. He seemed... out of place. Sorry. But if it makes you feel better, I have decided to do a bit of HarryGambit as a side pairing in future chapters. ^_^_

_**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted, and added this story to their favorites!  
><strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I am not the owner of either Harry Potter or the X-Men series. Both belong to J.K. Rowling and Marvel -Stan Lee- respectively. I'm just thankful they let me play with their brilliant characters._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<br>**

Hermione couldn't sleep. The young witch once more cast a wandless _Tempus_. Only twenty minutes had passed since she had first awoke. It was now just past four in the morning- roughly an hour before she had set her alarm to go off. In a manner entirely too reminiscent of her childhood nemesis to be considered healthy, she sneered at the numbers suspended next to her head. If it were possible for numbers to be smug, Hermione had no doubt that these ones would be the smuggest bastards of the lot. Those numbers were surely mocking her futile attempts to go back to sleep. They were just hovering there...idly blinking away the seconds and turning them into minutes whilst she tossed and turned.

Sending the bloody twinkling pests a venomous glare she reserves solely for things she truly despises, Hermione gracelessly flipped over onto her stomach to see if that would be more comfortable.

Nope.

No matter how she turned or how hard she punched her overstuffed feather pillow, it just wasn't happening. Apparently her body had decided that she'd had enough sleep to sustain her sanity despite all evidence to the contrary.

_Really... what sane person acts as if numbers derived from a charm are sentient?...Bugger! I've definitely taken one too many knocks to the head over the years.  
><em>

With an overly dramatic sigh in response to her thoughts, Hermione rolled out of bed. Her bare feet let out an audible smack as they touched the heated hardwood floor. She padded over to the wall and flipped the switch- flooding the dark room in bright light.

Hermione blinked.

_I really should have done more than throw up a few privacy charms before banishing the teeny-bopper posters into the rubbish bin last night. There is a distinctive lack of coffee or any other forms of caffeine, thus it is far too early in the day to see such a disgustingly cheerful color,_ she grumbled to herself.

The young witch raised one hand to cover her poor, unsuspecting eyes in an attempt to shield them from the blinding light glinting garishly off the lime green walls. She summoned her wand into the other and hurriedly flicked it in a few complicated patterns to change the color to something more mature and less migraine inducing.

_Just what the healer ordered, that,_ Hermione thought smugly whilst she admired her wandwork.

The walls were now a soft silvery purple- a perfect color for future early mornings. Truly, it was a wonderful shade. Not bright enough to harshly reflect the light into a persons eyes in an annoying manner. Not dark enough to make it feel as if the room had been subjected to the lackluster interior decorating skills of Snape. The silver infused purple embodied the soft and subtle complexities that personified Hermione Granger.

Another flick of the young witch's wrist turned all of her bedding a deep purple with silver accents. Her white washed bedroom furniture became a dark ebony that contrasted her walls perfectly_. _With the major decorating disaster averted she quickly used the loo, brushed her teeth, and threw her uncontrollable curls up into a bun.

_Now to unpack, _Hermione thought as she spotted the rucksack she had tossed onto her desk ten hours previous. Opening it up, she began pulling out one object after another.

Her shrunken Ducati.

Files on the wanted Death Eaters.

Sadalbari and sheath.

A few daggers, ankle and thigh holsters included.

A set of dragon-hide gauntlets.

A dragon-hide belt with special compartments attached.

Weasley Twin inventions such as Instant Darkness Powder, Decoy Detonators, Shield Pills, Disguises for Dummies, Extendable Ears, and Portable Swamps.

A magically altered I-Pod, ear-buds, and docking station.

Six boxes of shrunken and organized texts on every subject imaginable.

Various cauldrons.

An ingredients kit.

Important potions.

Warding supplies.

A huge pile of both muggle clothes and robes.

Shoes.

Framed photos.

Several magical M.R.E.s - just add water and baddabing, a meal.

Her old Hogwarts trunk, no doubt filled with her retired school supplies.

A magical tent.

...The objects just kept coming until the bag was emptied for the first time in nearly ten years.

Hermione didn't doubt that if she'd had an audience, they would have been wondering how she managed to fit so much into such an average bag. But this rucksack was anything but ordinary. Hermione could fit all of her worldly possessions inside because she had cast both an _undetectable extension_ _charm_ and a _feather weight_ _charm_ on it when the war began. She could literally shove an entire house inside of it if she so desired.

Her bag was really quite handy.

The young witch looked around her room after she finished unloading her belongings. The spacious suite was in complete disarray and in need of order. She quickly dug out her I-Pod and docking station- hooking it up on her desk. A quick scroll through her preset play-lists had _**The Who**_ blaring through the speakers.

The opening guitar for _American Woman_ caused Hermione to start humming along with a wistful smile. This was her father's favorite song. She had caught him dancing around singing to it to her American born mother both at home and at his dental practice on more than one occasion. So, thanks to her childhood, Hermione had grown to enjoy listening to the heavy guitar riffs that epitomize classic rock first thing in the morning. Even if she preferred something from her generation during the rest of the day.

Hermione spent the next half hour organizing everything into two piles -what to keep and what went back inside the rucksack. The clutter lessened greatly once she put the magical tent, potions supplies, M.R.E's, Weasley Twin inventions, and other miscellaneous items back into her special bag with her Ducati going on top.

Her wardrobe became the first keep items to be put away. Clothing items magically flew into the closet or dresser drawers making the room look much less cluttered.

The newly expanded bookshelves by her desk were filled when Hermione divided her book collection up by subject. Her slight obsessive compulsive tendencies took the organization a step further by ordering the subjects into several subcategories based on difficulty level. The Death Eater files, warding supplies, as well as a few spare rolls of parchment and some normal paper found a home in some of the desks many drawers. A fountain pen and several regular ball-point pens were added to the desktop. The last addition to that section of the room was a special world map which showed all magical countries and settlements in conjunction to their muggle counterparts. It took up the wall behind her desk and was covered with brightly colored dots which pinpointed confirmed Death Eater sightings.

The photographs (mostly copies of those taken by Collin Creevey over the past decade) were next. Many of the framed photos of her, Harry, and Ron as well as various other Order members found their way onto her walls, perfectly blending in with those of Ororo, Scott, Hank, and her Grandfather. In the place of honor on the nightstand next to her bed stood two framed photos that meant the most to Hermione. The non-magical photo was of a small, three person family- her family- standing in front of the Eiffel Tower with cheesy smiles plastered on their faces. The magically animated one repeats the same scene over and over. It starts with Hermione receiving overly dramatic kisses on her cheeks by both Harry and Sirius while she played the grand piano in the drawing room at Number 12. The camera mans angle perfectly captures the devilishly handsome escaped convict reaching up to squeeze her left breast with a roguish grin. His groping makes Hermione shove him away with an exasperated roll of her eyes. Unfortunately, the push causes Sirius to topple off the bench onto the floor- leading photo Hermione and Harry to laugh uproariously at his misfortune.

After another quarter hour had passed with her putting things away, the only objects left were various battle gear and weapons. Her gauntlets were placed in the closet on the shelf next to her dragon-hide battle robes, various holsters, belt, and boots. She proudly displayed Sadalbari's gleaming blade and intricately detailed scabbard on the wall next to her closet door. One of the pure silver daggers went under her pillow sans sheath whilst two others were _Spellotaped_ underneath her desk and the sink cabinet next to the shower respectively.

_Mad-Eye would be so proud_ _to know that I've become so paranoid_ Hermione decided as she walked out of the loo. After all, even he would agree that having three hidden daggers, one underneath her pillow no less, was a bit overkill on the paranoia scale. But Hermione had learned long ago that it was better to be overly prepared for an attack than to be caught unaware.

_It'll do, _she decided as she admired her handiwork.

A glance at the glowing face of her I-Pod showed that it was nearly six in the morning. She had lost an hour of her morning workout routine to her redecorating, but it was necessary. She ventured back into her closet and changed into a pair of shorts, her sports bra, and a pair of trainers. Ear buds found their way into her ears and her I-Pod was set to play all _**Muse**_ albums before it got clipped onto the waistband of her shorts. Hermione gracefully dropped to the floor and commenced to do her daily reps of push-ups then sit-ups. Once finished, she glanced about the room to be sure she didn't require anything else before Apparating away to the front gate of her grandfathers property.

Hermione went through a few warm-up stretches to loosen her leg muscles, then began jogging along the fence lining the outermost property edges. For the first lap, she stopped every so often to inspect the stone pillars of the fence. She needed the three most sturdy ones that came to a perfect triangulation to adhere rune stones to. Once properly set-up the charge stones would power all of the wards she intended to set over the property.

After marking the third and final spot with a purple dot, the young witch's mind began to wander to other things as it is wont to do on her morning runs. As per usual, the overly analytic young woman's thoughts couldn't help but turn back to the European Blood Wars. They affected her so deeply and altered her life so completely that every morning she attempts to pinpoint just how they began.

She wonders whom to blame for the hell she and her friends endured.

It would be so easy for her to blame Tom Riddle himself. Merlin, how she wants to implicate him more than anyone else. The man was a verifiable monster and not just in appearance. No, that...that...**thing**.. was the worst sort imaginable. Evil personified. He held no appreciation for human life... or life in general.

But could she really lay all the blame at his feet? In her opinion everything concerning him boiled down to a classic case of nature versus nurture.

Sure, Riddle had the blood of Salazar Slytherin running through his veins. Everyone knows it to be fact. But the dark reputation of the Slytherin family failed to show anyone else in the history of the bloodline to be as vile and bloodthirsty as Riddle became. Some were actually very productive members of society. Therefore it stands to reason that his ancestry meant little in regards to his abhorrent personality. Genes, even ones as deeply seeded in the dark arts as his, did not make the man.

That blame must lie solely on his upbringing.

Perhaps the accountability lies with the orphanage then.

From what she and Harry learned about his childhood over the years, the caretakers at the orphanage quickly segregated him from the other children. They denied him affection and any sort of childhood camaraderie because he was so obviously different. He was labeled a freak and monster with little care to his feelings. The caretakers said he had the devil inside him and actually called in a priest to perform an exorcism. When that did nothing more than traumatize young Tom Riddle, the head of the orphanage allowed verbal and physical abuse to the point where the young boy had to magically incite fear into others to ensure his safety.

Following that train of thought, it could easily be implied that Albus Dumbeldore held the responsibility for creating such a monster. **_He_** visited that orphanage to inform Tom he was a wizard. **_He_** knew the living conditions the young boy had to endure and did **_nothing_** to take an obviously abused magical child out of an unhealthy environment. Albus turned a blind eye whilst the darkest wizard to ever exist was being molded into the hateful, cold, and merciless man he would become. His refusal to believe people were capable of treating children so cruelly directly impacted all of our futures.

If she were really being honest with herself, though, Hermione knew that those were the obvious scapegoats. And she could let them take the fall to an extent, but the blame rested solely within Europe's magical society.

Magical society was still as outdated now as it had been during Grindelwald's extermination campaign. Pure-bloods and half-bloods alike refused to move with the times outside of their own world. They refused to adapt and instead believed the rest of the world should adapt to them. On top of that, the society held too many antiquated beliefs to put to name. However, most of them did foster prejudices. For instance, certain forms of magic were looked down upon and labeled dangerous because those whom were incapable of practicing them didn't understand how they worked. Creatures were treated like lesser beings just because they were different. And muggleborns were at the bottom of the rung. They received the scorn and blame for everything from dying blood-lines to the abolishing of age old rituals. They were treated as if they didn't belong... as if they weren't wanted.

After hundreds of dark lords, they had yet to learn that magical society as a whole was weaker when it stood divided. And just like nearly every dark lord before him, Tom Riddle used that against them. He manipulated everyone, pitting the different factions of society against one another to suit his own needs and beliefs. And each and everyone of us played right into his hands without ever realizing what we were doing. So maybe the blame rested on us all. For no matter how hard we fought, we still allowed ourselves to be manipulated via our social status and prejudices.

As she began to walk back towards the manor so that her muscles had time to cool down, Hermione reached up to rub her temples. Her opinions regarding the war were a circle jerk of epic proportions. Every morning she put two and two together only to come up with zero. It was unbelievably frustrating.

She shook her head and began walking once more when she noticed that a tawny owl sat perched on a chair of the back patio. She approached it and took the morning papers she had daily subscriptions to from its talons then sent it off. Hermione banished them to the desk in her room to look over later before entering the manor through the patio doors.

She made her way to the large, state of the art kitchen and fixed herself a morning cuppa. As she carried her freshly brewed breakfast tea from the kitchen to the dining hall, a grimace momentarily twisted her lips. The voices of all the early morning risers were actually loud enough to drown out the music from her I-Pod. Hermione turned the volume off then pulled the ear buds from her ears in response.

She sighed.

It was times like these that the young witch remembered that not only had it been ten years since she'd been in a school environment, but she was no longer living at Potter Manor either. There, she and Harry both valued peaceful mornings. Ultimately that was something that had carried over from the war when those mornings at a safe house were likely to be the only peaceful time they would experience in between several days of fighting. Even though they both recognized that fact, neither did anything to disrupt the peace. They worked out then had a quiet breakfast. They savored those mornings like many would savor a fine wine.

_Come on, Hermione. Get over it. You knew things, especially routines, were going to be different here. _She sucked it up in response to her thoughts and entered the dining hall.

Just like the night before, she could feel the eyes following her as she approached the professor's table at the head of the hall. Only this time... it was a bit different. It immediately became unnaturally silent with her entrance. Even if people had been talking, they trailed off mid-sentence and became quiet. It was freaky enough to give her a complex. Especially when all of the other professors, plus her grandfather, all turned to stare as well.

Her spine stiffened in response and her hand twitched, but she refused to allow her body to react any further to their uncomfortable stares.

"What? Do I smell?" Hermione asked as she reached the full Professor's table.

The visibly annoyed witch didn't wait for an answer. She switched her cuppa to her left hand. She then summoned her wand from it's invisible holster on her forearm into her right palm and cleaned the grimy sweat off herself. After casting a freshening charm, she sheathed her wand.

Hanks mouth opened and closed a few times- the furry blue giant was obviously rendered speechless by something or other.

Her grandfather visibly gulped a few times."No, dearest, you did not smell. I believe we were all just shocked at the sight of your body."

"My body..." The young witch set down her cuppa then glanced down to see what had startled them so. Her full lips formed a classic 'o' in realization.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't subconsciously remember that she wasn't back at Potter Manor with Harry where she didn't have to worry about the reactions of others. _Must be one of those years of ingrained habit things I thought about on the plane_ Hermione supposed.

Hermione reached up to rub the back of her neck with a wry tilt of her lips as the gravity of the situation made itself known.

Today was her first full day here. None of the mutants had seen her without jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Of course they would be stunned speechless. They obviously weren't prepared to see such a grotesque sight as her scars. And well, her workout gear meant a good majority of her scarring happened to be visible to the naked eye.

She looked like a real life Frankenstein reject to anyone who hadn't fought in the war. But she knew the story behind each and every one.

Most of the scars were from the many dark cutting curses and slicing hexes she had received in battle over the years. A few were from blades. A real nasty looking thick, purple tinted scar ran from just under her left breast to her right hip- a souvenir from a darker version of the _Flagrante_ curse she was unable to counter.

But a good majority of the scars currently visible took Hermione several years to realize that she should never be ashamed of possessing. They were proof that she survived when so many others did not.

On her left collarbone sat a decent sized brand she would live with the rest of her life. The magically given tattoo told of her status as a prisoner of war. It resembled a barcode with **MB1259471** stamped underneath it.

But that brand wasn't the worst of the evidence she still carried from that week of pure hell.

Hermione's torturers had left an immeasurable number of thin red scars crisscrossing her back, thighs, and calves with cursed knives and whips. She even had a rather lengthy one that ran from just beneath her right ear and down her shoulder from where Dolohov had drug his knife. However, the scarring happened to be much worse on her forearms in her opinion. Hateful phrases had been carved over and over into the soft flesh of each arm by Bellatrix as a reminder of her true status in the magical realm. Her right sported crude insults such as "Mudblood Whore" while her left branded her a "Filthy Abomination."

She met all of their... pitying stares of her grandfather and surrogate family without an ounce of shame or sadness. She had long ago left those emotions behind in regards to her body.

She squared her shoulders and decided to dispel any sort of pity they felt for her. She was stronger than pity. She didn't want such a useless emotion directed at her and she didn't need it to be. Warriors don't need pity for their battle scars. They just need quiet acceptance. If they couldn't show that then she didn't need them.

Her honey streaked eyes seemed to give each of those offering her pity an ultimatum as she stared them down.

"Well, I _am_ an Auror." Hermione stated to back up her ultimatum with an explanation. She tapped the standard issue Ministry of Magic Auror Identification Tags (which greatly resembled muggle military dog tags) hanging from a pure silver chain on her neck as proof of her statement. "Only Auror's I've ever met without their fair share of scars from dark magic are rookies. Its too dangerous a profession not to rack up a good number."

"What's an Auror?"

"Dangerous?"

Hermione lifted a brow at the two totally different tones in those questions. One was asked in a reasonable manner by Jean and the other... well it was growled out by the feral she had dubbed McSnarles.

Just because she found the ferals growling problem slightly annoying, if not down right rude, she took her sweet time in answering. She sat in the same spot as the evening before, shot a wandless warming charm at her tepid tea, and then sipped it before even beginning to respond.

"The Auror Corp is a special division within the Ministry of Magic whose members are notorious for using their natural affinity at battle magic to fight dark witches and wizards. As for how dangerous it is to fight them... Well, to put it bluntly, it's one of the most dangerous magical professions. Most new recruits are lucky to make the five year mark. During times of war, the Auror Corp gets sent to the frontlines so the survival rate drops from years to mere weeks."

Hermione leaned across the table and spread a bit of marmalade across a slice of toast while those around her processed her words.

She conveniently ignored the growling beside her as she munched on her breakfast. The man was obviously a little barmy... or maybe...as a feral he felt some weird urge to be protective of her because of his loyalty to her grandfather. She hoped that was the case, because if he was growling at her personally... they were going to have some problems. Besides, if he was going for intimidation...the feral really needed to practice in the mirror a bit more. She'd heard far scarier in her day.

"Wow..." Scott muttered, breaking her out of her musings.

He was slack jawed. Scott obviously never expected the little bookworm he would have to protect or comfort when she cried to have that sort of career. A librarian? Maybe. But an Auror? Definitely not.

The young witch fondly fingered her dog tags while she smirked at her childhood friend.

"Can I see those?"

Hermione raised a brow at Ororo as if she was wondering why she bothered to ask when they were visibly resting against her chest.

"I meant up close."

The young witch rolled her eyes. She easily lifted the chain over her head and handed them off to the weather goddess at her side. Hermione watched with barely hidden curiosity as Ororo lifted them closer to examine.

"Aha!" She exclaimed. "I thought these looked like flags on the bottom. What do they stand for?"

"They're a... road map of sorts. All of those flags belong to countries I've fought in as an Auror."

"But... there are flags for nearly every major European country on here..."

"Obviously..." She drawled sarcastically in a near perfect imitation of her dreaded potions professor.

_Alas! The one time I do it perfectly... right down to the slow eye-roll and there isn't anyone around to appreciate such a feat _She grumbled to herself.

"You must have quite the souvenir collection back in your room."

Hermione's eyes whipped from Ororo to Jean in a millisecond. The young witch stared at the mutant she hardly knew as if she were a bit dense for totally missing when Hermione stated she had **fought** in those countries.

"Actually, I do have quite the souvenir collection," Hermione agreed in a rather chipper, if a bit bitchy, tone. Then she pointed at a thick scar that nearly wrapped around her right shoulder. "Got this souvenir in Italy when I got distracted by the army of vicious, animated, decomposing corpses coming to rip me apart. An unknown severing curse caught me in the shoulder. It was right gruesome. The healers were pretty sure I was gonna lose my arm to the dark magic there for awhile."

The young woman smirked when Jean paled as she realized her faux pas. Her thin face froze in horror while the forks of the others fell to their breakfast plates with an audible clatter. The man beside her growled a bit louder. She turned and gave him a raised brow.

"I was in those countries to fight. Not to have tea and crumpets while I 'OOH'd and AHH'd' over the local tourist traps. So, the only 'souvenirs' I posses are the scars on my body. Doubt you want to know the stories behind all those."

Hermione finished her little rant by standing. "Now, If you all will excuse me I've about tolerated all of the staring I can without having a good, stiff drink or hexing someone. I think I'll go shower and start working on the ward configuration I wish to cast over the school."

With the expected British pleasantries out of the way, she pushed in her chair and strode from the dining hall towards her quarters. Just as she exited the main doors she felt another presence running to catch up. Hermione turned to find McSnarls not five steps behind her with her dog tags dangling from his calloused fingertips.

"Look... I'm sorry about the growling. I don't like seein' evidence of women bein' hurt. Anyway...You forgot these, Sugar," he drawled.

An eye-brow lifted as she noted the hesitant smile stretching his chiseled features. She gave him a small nod of thanks and understanding as she took them from him and slipped them back around her neck. Without another word she continued towards her quarters. To her surprise he fell into step with her. He ended up following her all the way to the door to her suite.

"Can I help you with anything, Logan?"

She glanced over to see him rolling those pretty grey-green eyes at her formal question. He pulled a half smoked cigar from the front pocket of his flannel, casually leaned against her door-frame, and began chewing it.

"Just wanna get to know ya a bit. I ain't gonna lie, I'm damn curious bout those scars of yours and why you'd pick such a dangerous profession. But I really came to ask about those colored bars on the back of your dog tags. Mine are different, but they ain't like that," As he finished speaking, he pulled his own battered dog tags from beneath his shirt to show her that they were entirely blank except for a serial number with 'WOLVERINE' written above it.

Hermione entered her room, beckoning the feral to follow. He prowled inside behind her, obviously curious to check out his new surroundings. She indulged him for a moment, watching as he slowly strode around the room sniffing as if he were checking for threats of some sort. It was an oddly comforting sight and she had no clue why.

She ended up having to loudly clear her throat a few times to get his attention.

"You wanted to know about the dog-tags... remember?"

"Right," he agreed, moving to lean against the wall beside the desk chair she had sat in.

Her bare knee brushed against his denim clad thigh as she swiveled to face him better. Hermione became acutely aware of just how warm that muscled thigh pressed against her was. It felt strong... as if she should just reach out to give it a nice squeeze to test it out. Then she could just trail her fingers up the short distance to see if those abs were as defined and rock hard as they look...

She forcefully shook those naughty and unexpected thoughts from her head. The young witch nonchalantly adjusted her chair just a bit so that they were no longer touching to ensure that she could think with something _other_ than her hormones for a few moments.

From the devilish smirk twisting the feral's lips, she hadn't been as nonchalant as she thought.

She rolled her eyes and ploughed on despite her growing embarrassment.

"As Aurors, we always have to be at the top of our game so we go through a monthly evaluation. In the first half we are put in a room that magically simulates a battle situation then are graded on our performance. For the second part, we go from the simulated battle straight to the practice range. We throw spells at targets which basically score us on our accuracy, speed, and power. All of that culminates together to give our superiors an estimation of our skills."

Hermione checked to see that he was following. Amazingly, the ruggedly handsome man had gone from teasing to looking extremely interested by her explanation.

With a small smile, she lifted up the dog tags resting against the swells of her breasts then flipped them over so that the six bars of colors were visible.

"Now, when we start out as Auror's, the back of our tags are blank. No bars. You earn them when you learn more spells, pick up more technique, and learn to harness your power and speed." Hermione began tapping the colors in succession. "You earn Red bars for your offensive spells. Blue come when you have a decent barrage of defensive spells. You earn Green bars when you've mastered spell chaining and weaving. Yellow are for the rare few who pick-up healing spells. Purple bars come when you've either picked up a rare ability or managed to be decent at stealth and tracking. And Black bars are for mastery of the Unforgivables."

The feral seemed to be following just fine, but she had to ask anyways. "Questions?"

"A few, Sugar. What's the ranking system? On the Black you got five small bars, but on others -like the Green and Red- you got one long bar."

Hermione shrugged, "Seven bars declares you a master. On the seventh bar all the small bars turn into the one long bar like on my Green and Red. Anything else?"

He rubbed a hand down the scruff of his jaw in what was probably an age-old habit. "I understood most of the color designation. Pretty self explanatory. Except for that last bit. Ain't never heard of the Unforgivables."

Honey brown eyes met grey-green as she nodded in understanding. "You wouldn't have. There are three Unforgivable Curses and use of them without Ministry sanction earns a life-sentence in prison. As an Auror we have sanction to cast them if we possess the raw power and emotions they require.

"The mildest of the three is called the Imperious. This one is cast on Auror's repeatedly until we learn to throw it. After all, the Ministry can't have its military running around with someone having total control of their minds and bodies. Its really a very nasty curse and nigh on impossible to break once you've been hit with it because you simply exist in this thick, white fog with no wants, needs, or desires. But if you can successfully throw it within a minute as well as cast it, then you earn your first two black bars.

"The next one...well... there is quite a bit of debate about whether it's the worst of the three or not. It's called the Cruciatus, or the torture curse. It tortures the victim mentally and physically...the level of pain depends on the power of the caster. The stronger the witch or wizard, the worse the pain. Truly...even a mild hit is filled with more pain than you would never be capable of imagining." A tremor shook Hermione's body as unwanted echoes of the intense pain Voldemort caused tried to surface. She gritted her teeth and continued. "Anyway, to earn the next black bar an Auror has to be able to be hit with a mild Cruciatus and continue fighting with little change to their speed or accuracy. Another bar is added if they can undergo a mock interrogation session with fairly heavy Cruciatus exposure without cracking. You get the final bar upon successful casting."

"That... sounds quite brutal. And that's sayin' somethin' comin' from me."

"It's better they prepare the Auror's for the very real pain they will experience upon being captured by dark witches and wizards then to delude them into believing they will receive quick deaths."

"Touche."

Hermione merely raised an eyebrow at the calm retort. "Anyway, the final Unforgivable is the killing curse. It is perhaps the most well known of the three. It simply kills on contact by ripping the soul from the body. It doesn't matter where it hits you, if that green light touches your body... you. are. dead. It's vital for Auror's to recognize and avoid the curse. Being able to do so earns a bar. And, as usual, another bar - the final one- is given when it is successfully cast."

"Damn. So you only got five black bars?"

Hermione avoided meeting his eyes and instead looked over his shoulder at the wall. For some reason she felt as if she needed to explain herself to him. It was most uncanny.

But she went with her instincts.

"I can throw and cast the Imperious. I can handle the pain of the Cruciatus better than anyone I've met, bar Harry. But I can't cast the last two. Heck I can't even bring myself to try the Cruciatus after having experienced it. I'd never willingly inflict that sort of pain on anyone. Not even my worst enemies. As for the killing curse, to successfully cast it you have to be filled with malice. You have to desire that persons death more than anything. I've seen the monsters the power rush of that curse creates. I won't be one of them."

Logan nodded soberly, as if he understood her desire to not be a monster. Perhaps he did since he had a feral that was always prowling beneath the surface. After a few minutes of a more or less companionable silence he smirked..."So, you ever gonna take that shower? You're startin' ta stink up the place..."

A playful glare got thrown his way as Hermione stood and pointed to the door. "Tosser. See if I ever take time out of my busy schedule to answer your questions ever again. If the supposed smell offends your delicate sensibilities so bad, leave. I'm sure you have plenty of work to do. Away from my rooms."

The feral backed away with a triumphant grin. "I'll see you later, Sugar." He called over his shoulder as he exited the door.

Hermione's retort died on her lips as she caught sight of the way his jeans perfectly hugged his tight arse as he walked out of the room. An arse that fine should be illegal. Unfortunately, like all good things, it came to an end. All too soon he was out of sight and she was left staring at a blank wall.

She sighed as she came back to herself. To be honest, she was a bit stunned by the conversation she had just participated in. Not only had she felt comfortable talking to Logan about her world and her life after having just met him... But there was obviously a bit more to McSnarls than just growling and looking dangerous. He could be serious and understanding...even a bit playful if the last few minutes were anything to go by. And sweet Merlin was the man drop dead gorgeous in a very dangerously sexy way. That coupled with her reactions to him as well as his layered personality...well Hermione would be lying to herself if she didn't admit that Logan definitely intrigued her.

With that last thought weighing heavy on her mind, Hermione made her way to the loo for the aforementioned shower. She needed a clear head if she intended to begin carving the charge stones for the wards today.

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><p><em><strong>Thanks to everyone who reviewed, alerted, and added this story to their favorites!<br>**_


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